Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  “Aye. Assistant to the wharfmaster. And what a job! I learned lately that the wharfmaster himself, Mr. Drummond, was hired less than a month ago, replacing a man who apparently was incompetent. And the clerk quit a week before that. So neither Mr. Drummond nor meself knows anything of the working of the place, nor of the paper work. We’re starting at the beginning, if ye will. Praise be, ’tis between seasons until the rains fill the river again. We need nae leap into the midst of something.”

  “All the abandoned buildings, the collapsing sheds—if I didn’t know already that Echuca’s in eclipse, I’d learn it by walking down her streets. The wharfmaster’s position can’t be too taxing these days.”

  She giggled. “Clever choice of words, Mr. Sloan—’taxing.’ Ye see, before—”

  “Sam? Would you do me a very big favor?”

  “Aye, sir, if I can.”

  “It’s Cole. Not Mr. Sloan.”

  “Cole.” This would be very difficult. He was Mr. Sloan. He’d always been Mr. Sloan. And yet, she was no longer in his employ. And there was not that much a gap between their ages that she should show him some sort of deference. “Ye see, before federation, Victoria here and New South Wales across the river each levied customs duties on all the goods entering their borders. And of course, the border was the river.”

  “I’m well familiar with the customs houses in the designated border towns. They were a royal pain, until federation and Free Trade.”

  “Eh, and what a mountain of paper! Every item landing on the wharf here in Echuca had to have the proper papers and be checked against the manifests, boat and train alike. The wharf kept records of all that went into the bonded store. We’ve records nae even Shackell’s Bonded stores bothered to keep. They were all in the office, filling every cranny. Every tax and duty receipt ever generated by the wharf, so far as we can tell. I could scarce believe the extent of the mess.”

  “You’re not one to tolerate disorder.”

  “And well I suffered for over a fortnight, going about me meager duties and planning how to change everything around. Mr. Drummond had nae objection. So yesterday, when I could stand it nae longer, meself bundled up the lot and stuffed it into some unused space next door. Sure’n Mr. Drummond had nae idea what color the top of his desk might be until today. But we’re ready for trade now, or nearly so. Tomorrow I’ll complete me task.”

  He was studying her thoughtfully, steadily, with his one good eye. “It sounds as if this Drummond is giving you carte blanche. Whatever you wish, do it.”

  “Eh, nae, I dinnae mean to give that impression. He handles the, ah, personal relations; he attends meetings, and talks to councilmen and shakes hands. Meself takes care of correspondence and day-by-day affairs in the office. It suits me well. I dinnae enjoy politics, and he thrives on it.”

  The tea and scones arrived. Mr. Sloan—no, Cole—took over as mother of the pot.

  “This be on me tab, please,” Samantha told the proprietress, and she nodded as she left.

  Cole was pouring when a familiar soprano voice pealed out from street side. “There she is!”

  Samantha’s son came running up. He bowed respectfully and even managed to avoid staring at Cole’s bruised face.

  “I present me son, Ah Loo. Ah Loo, this is Mr. Sloan. And behind Ah Loo is coming his uncle, Ah Sai Guy.”

  The ancient uncle, seller of the best produce in Victoria, left his greengrocer’s cart outside the garden and bowed low by her table. Cole rose and gravely shook the man’s hand. Samantha was flabbergasted. This was the sugar planter who repeatedly found himself in trouble for using Kanakas, the South Sea islanders, as illegal labor. This man held any race save his own in extremely low regard, and didn’t rate his own too highly in selected instances. Was this a new Cole Sloan, or did he see some advantage to be gained?

  Cole sat down again. “You said ‘son’ before, but I thought I heard you wrong. I can’t wait to get this story.”

  Samantha smiled at Ah Loo. “What might I do for ye?”

  “It is the close of day and my uncle still has some very fine tomatoes. He would like to give them to you.”

  “Thank ye.” Samantha nodded at Ah Sai Guy. “Thank ye.”

  The old gentleman was staring at Cole’s eye, and yet it was not an impolite sort of stare. He raised a finger. “Have just the thing. Excuse, please.” He bowed and hastened off.

  Ah Loo licked his lips. “My uncle is well known among the Chinese for his herbs and medicines. I think he’s going to give you something for, uh, that.” He glanced at Cole.

  “If it works, I’ll take it.” Perhaps it was indeed a new Cole Sloan.

  Ah Loo grinned. “When Uncle and I stopped by your house and you weren’t there, I said, ‘I bet I know where she is.’” He snapped his fingers.

  “And glad I am ye found me. Not just for the tomatoes; I’ve decided I will nae need ye on the morrow. Stop by again on Friday, if ye will.”

  The uncle came jogging up at that shuffling trot. He did not trust his recipe to his limited command of English. He explained his handful of weeds to Ah Loo.

  The boy translated. “The gentleman is to pound these together in a—you know, one of those—” He made mortar-and-pestle motions. “And make a—you know, like a pillow—”

  “A poultice? A pack?”

  “That’s it. Keep it moist with cool water. It will bring the swelling down so he can see.”

  There followed a nearly endless flurry of thanks, nods, bows, leave-taking and hand-shaking. Ah Loo and Ah Sai Guy retreated, and Samantha sipped her tea, wearied by the frantic spate of politeness.

  She glanced at Cole. If she felt wearied, he looked it, immensely so. She pondered options. It didn’t take her long; there weren’t that many. “Bank of New South Wales?”

  He nodded.

  “Over in Moama across the bridge. Even if ye be waiting at the door when it opens, ye’ll not make it back to the railway station in time to catch the train. So y’re here at least another day.”

  “That’s no good anyway. I’ve no identification and nothing the bank wants to see to prove I’m a depositor.”

  “I’ll sign for ye; I’ve a permanent address here and an account in the Bank of Victoria.” Why was she doing this? There was no chance of an intensified relationship with this man. She could not trust him before; she could trust him no better now. She should see him on his way as quickly as possible. Having him near and yet unavailable hurt, she suddenly recognized. Why twist the knife?

  Pity. That was it. Here was a man beaten by life, virtually friendless, stranded, in need of rest, of succor. This was the least she could do. A Christian duty, if you will. “Forgive me boldness. But if ye’ve naething calling ye immediately to Sydney, perhaps ye’d like to spend the holiday here in the Riverina and return home after the New Year. ’Twould give ye a much-needed rest. And ye would nae be going back to the city looking as if ye were trampled by a camel train.”

  “There,” he smiled wryly. “There’s the difference between you and Hilary. Hilary would refuse to be seen with me until I healed up. You take me out to tea in the middle of town.” He nodded. “Maybe it would be good to just relax here awhile. Since Sugarlea, I haven’t stopped running. I am tired.”

  Why did she feel so happy with this decision? It was bound to lead to nothing but pain and trouble. She knew that even as she said, “Splendid! We’ll secure ye a room; the Esplanade or perhaps the Bridge—both be good hotels; and mayhap spend a quiet evening at me house creating poultices. Eh, y’r poor eye!”

  Ever since it was delicensed ten years ago, the Esplanade maintained a sly-grog shop in its basement, where men bent upon drinking something virtually poisonous could sneak down and do it. There was even a little passageway out the back and to the surface that those same men might elude police during the occasional raids. Everyone, including the police, knew about it. Samantha signed for a room for Cole at the Esplanade anyway, because the Bridge down the street maintained several ro
oms of ill repute. And these were two of the better accommodations.

  And then Samantha Connolly did what she had never done before; she invited an unattached male into her home. The circumstance was certainly harmless, and yet she felt oddly uncomfortable doing it. She left him at the dining table and retired to the kitchen out back to prepare a light supper. Cole turned chemist, pounding his mysterious herbs to a paste in a crockery bowl with a wooden spoon. By the time she was ready to serve chicken with rice, biscuits and tomatoes, he had built a serviceable poultice out of a linen towel and had fallen asleep on her bed with the green blob lying on his face.

  Should she wake him or let him nap? A difficult choice—he badly needed both rest and sustenance. Indeed, he could use the poultice, too. She left the question momentarily unresolved by leaning in the bedroom doorway several minutes simply watching him.

  Handsome, well built, strong and healthy. There was nothing about him physically that would not recommend him. He knew her well and seemed to accept her as she was. He had professed love for her once upon a time. But he had his dark side, too—his lack of scruples. Was she being too choosy? All men had flaws, even Meg’s preacher-man Luke Vinson, and yet women happily married them.

  So many of her friends were introduced to some gentleman, were courted properly, fell in love, accepted the man’s proposal, and wedded—the end of singleness, the beginning of marriage and motherhood, the roles a woman was born to. Meg had met and married without trauma or difficulty, a straightforward courtship. What was wrong with Samantha that she could not? Why did every position she accepted disappear out from under her for one reason or another? Why did this new decision of hers to accept Jesus Christ fully bring with it so many questions, mostly unanswered? She yearned for a bit of simplicity in her life, for black and white answers to honest questions. She despised uncertainty, and she was plagued with it.

  Someone knocked. Ah Loo again? Cole stirred and reached absently for the glob on his face. That solved that problem. He’d be awake now. Might as well feed him. She crossed to the door and opened it.

  On her doorstep a cheerful smile divided a neat, trimmed brown beard. He carried a large, elaborately wrapped Christmas gift. “Good evening, Samantha. Sorry to just pop in on you like this. For a number of reasons I decided to come into town over the holiday. Is this a good time to call?”

  Frankly, it’s a terrible time to call.

  “Yes, certainly, Reginald. Good to see ye.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Recitative on Love and Handel

  “A————men.” Pause; watch the conductor. “A—men. A—men.”

  Silence.

  Applause erupted. “Bravos” shot like firecrackers all over the hall. The hubbub ignited Linnet’s cheeks and heart together. Why did she always blush when applauded? Chris said it was one of the most charming things about her. But she found it excruciatingly embarrassing.

  Although Handel mounted the first performance of his Messiah in Linnet’s own Dublin, she had never before heard it performed. Chopping out the various parts for practice, much less the constant rabbit-like starts and stops of rehearsals, in no way came close to this awesome full performance.

  The tenor took her hand in his and led her forward for a bow. She dipped in a curtsy until the lights blinded her. She stepped back with one arm raised and could not contain the grin on her face. From the darkness in the wings—from nowhere—a page thrust a huge bouquet into her arms. Chris had rehearsed her about this, though at the time she did not believe it would ever happen. She plucked a rose from her bouquet and handed it to the tenor.

  Continuous applause. Another bow. And more…

  There stood Chris beside the orchestra piano, barely visible in the gloom beyond the lights, beaming at her and clapping. She could make out no one else in the orchestra—only Chris.

  Finally they left the stage, returned once more to applause, then left for good.

  Mr. Giambone, the voluminous tenor, kissed her hand before releasing it. “My dear, you saw it through like a seasoned trooper. I must admit I worried a bit, learning this was your first Messiah performance, solo or chorus. You’ve a wonderful gift. I was pleased to sing with you.”

  She curtsied. “I’m honored, sir. Y’re so…y’re very…Sure’n I’m honored. Thank ye, sir.” This professional singer, brought over from Sydney for the occasion, was praising her! What a glorious, wonderful night!

  Guli Hack, an acre of hat perched on her head, loomed beside Linnet. Almost manly with those dark eyebrows and firm jaw, her face looked nearly ready to smile. Not quite. “You did well, Miss Connolly. I knew you would. Tomorrow remind me: we’ll work on your apoggiaturas. You got quite sloppy with them in How Beautiful Are the Feet.” She handed Linnet a check.

  “Thank ye, mum.” Linnet curtsied.

  The dark face eyed her gravely. “Miss Connolly, I—yes, I will say it. You should know, or perhaps you do already. You are no student. I believe you realize that. You are bound to fail your examinations in everything save your music, and in that you excel. Did you not excel, you would have been dismissed from the program weeks ago. We’re keeping you simply because we want the university’s name associated with your musical training.”

  From behind her Chris spoke. Linnet hadn’t seen him approach. “Does that mean, Miss Hack, that you and the other decision-makers in this brain factory think she’s going to achieve a name for herself?”

  “If she doesn’t do something foolish, like marry or become involved with some man so as to give up her career.” She glared at Linnet. “Do you understand my meaning?”

  “Aye, mum.” Linnet curtsied again.

  Miss Hack moved just enough to present her back to Chris. “There are many fine sopranos in the program, Miss Connolly—girls from upper forms with seniority. We chose you, a beginner, as soloist only because of the quality of your voice. You still have much to learn.”

  “Aye, mum.”

  The brooding Miss Hack turned away to other students. A crowd of well-wishers and congratulators occupied Linnet for the next half hour. She clung to her bouquet, her marvelous bouquet, curtsying and murmuring “Thank ye” to everyone around. Her throat was getting a bit rough with all this. All along the way Chris hovered at her shoulder, fending off the crush, strengthening her simply by being there.

  She wished Mr. Sloan could have remained in town long enough to see this performance. Of course, it was now that she wished him here; during rehearsals, when she so feared making a fool of herself, she had been glad business had called him away. She did wish, though, that he could have said goodbye in person, rather than with a simple note delivered by a page. Where was he now? Back in Sydney, probably. Thoughts of his kiss flitted in and out of her mind.

  At long last the excitement waned. Weariness and exhilaration fought each other inside her and wearied her further. Handel’s Messiah. What a thing! She changed from the rented concert gown to her plain black skirt. Chris led her out of the conservatorium into the close and muggy night.

  “There she is!” Mr. Giambone’s booming voice vibrated through the darkness. Not only could his ringing tenor fill the concert hall, it filled South Australia. Chris and Linnet stopped and turned to watch him come.

  He approached accompanied by a man half his size. The other fellow appeared quite ordinary in his lightweight suit and bowler hat. Mr. Giambone himself had shed the cutaway coat and stiffly starched collar. His ruffled white shirt nearly glowed in the dark, for the streetlamps cast little light into this area of the conservatorium lawn.

  He was puffing slightly. “My business manager, Mr. Osgood Dwyer, Miss Connolly.”

  “How d’ye do, sir.”

  Mr. Dwyer dipped his head. “Miss Connolly, I apologize for being so abrupt and hasty, but we’ve a train to catch. Tell me, do you have representation?”

  Linnet had no idea what he meant. Since she probably would at least know what it meant if she had any, she was about to say no.

  C
hris stepped forward. “She does. Esmond Christenikos Yorke, at your service, sir.”

  The men shook hands all around, stiffly, formally. So Chris was her representative! What did that mean?

  Mr. Dwyer offered his business card both to Chris and to her. “Mr. Yorke, we are mounting the Messiah as an Easter presentation in Sydney next year. I wish to sign your soprano here for the solo. Thirty pounds plus direct expenses. The production will be staged March 28, 30 and 31—31 being Easter, of course—with rehearsals the two weeks preceding.”

  Chris nodded. “Two items. One, I always accompany Miss Connolly on the road, for I am her rehearsal pianist and coach as well as agent. I would expect my immediate expenses to be covered as well. Second, I would like to know the circumstances of the dismissal of your original soprano soloist, since I’m certain you would have signed one by this late date.”

  Mr. Giambone emitted a high-pitched laugh, nothing short of a giggle; Mr. Dwyer smirked. “Very simple. She is with child, a condition no one foresaw when she signed the contract. We learned the week we left Sydney to come here.”

  Chris nodded. “Write the contract as we’ve discussed here and we’ll gladly sign. Miss Connolly’s career will benefit from exposure beyond her current environs.”

  As the gentlemen hurried through their formalities of handshaking and parting, Linnet tried to sort out what had just happened. Thirty pounds? Was she to be paid that extravagant sum simply to perform a work she already knew? Direct expenses: travel costs and all that? Surely she couldn’t be interpreting this scene correctly. No one would buy a servant girl’s voice for that much. She looked at the modest check in her hand—only soloists were paid for university performances—and at her magnificent bouquet on her arm. A lot of things were happening very quickly.

  Sydney? Mr. Sloan lived in Sydney. Perhaps he would hear her sing in concert. Lovely thought!

  Giambone and Dwyer hastened off toward their waiting cab. Chris took her arm and recommenced walking casually. The cab rattled away to the west beyond the buildings, out of sight.